


A Soul To Save

by WolfieJimi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley has a lot of Parent Issues with God, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Philosophy, Psychology, Theology, Warlock dowling - Freeform, a demon having a chat with a priest, ineffable husbands, mr cortese, mr harrison, nanny ashtoreth - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 01:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieJimi/pseuds/WolfieJimi
Summary: Crowley attempts to tempt a Priest, but things don't quite go as planned.Angst, fluff, theology, philosophy, psychology, just a smidge of archaeology, and a lot of Crowley being a very damaged and in love Demon.





	A Soul To Save

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Une âme à sauver](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22857589) by [Likia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likia/pseuds/Likia)

Crowley found himself in the Cathedral Garden.

This wasn’t as unlikely a place to find a Demon as you might expect. Well, not this particular Demon, anyway. 

Crowley rather liked Cathedral gardens. And smaller church gardens, and cemeteries… Really he just liked places that were a little secluded and a lot green, especially when those places were in the middle of loud, grey, chaotic, people-filled cities. He liked Cathedral gardens for the same reason he liked St. James’ park.

This particular Cathedral Garden was in Bristol, a reasonably sized city in the South West of England, not far from the much more refined and globally appreciated city of Bath. Bristol had a bad but slowly improving reputation, and was most famous for Banksy, Blackbeard, and the slave trade, which pretty much tells you everything you need to know.

Warlock had a _ Mathletes _ tournament down there over the course of the week. Mrs Dowling had “asked” (read: begged, and offered double pay for the whole week, plus all expenses paid) Warlock’s new tutors, one Mr Harrison and one Mr Cortese, to join them, because God forbid his mother spend more than an hour alone with her _ sweetheart. _ Ostensibly they were there as the boy’s coaches, but in reality they were his unofficial babysitters whilst Mother Dearest went out and got hammered on gin and dubbonet at the local branch of her Ladies Club every evening. 

Crowley didn’t know why she’d insisted on getting rid of Nanny Ashtoreth (although he suspected that the “_I wish Nanny was my mom instead of you, I wish that you were dead, I hate you” _ incident at Easter _ may _ have had something to do with it). Since abruptly dismissing Nanny at the end of Spring, she had promptly, one might say desperately, replaced her with Anthony Harrison and Ezra Cortese at the beginning of the summer. 

They were hired as his tutors, but really they were more the boy’s chaperons-cum-caretakers-cum-informal custodians. The only differences between Nanny’s role and theirs were that there were two of them, and they had to leave the poor kid to his own devices at 6pm every day instead of being live-in. Which was ridiculous, as Crowley knew full well that Mrs Dowling liked to have her evening martini(s…) in peace, and an unattended Warlock was a surefire way to avoid _ that. _

Those differences aside, Mr Harrison and Mr Cortese pretty much performed the same basic functions as Nanny Ashtoreth had, in addition to tutoring him during the day (Warlock still wasn’t allowed back at school full time after that mishap with Emilia Terence-Rouquet’s pigtails and the, well, pig…). The only other notable difference between Nanny Ashtoreth and Warlock’s new tutors was that Warlock didn’t _ like _ Mr Harrison very much. Crowley wasn’t handling it well.

It was their day off. Legal requirement. Warlock was off with his fellow _ Mathletes _ all day, so Crowley didn’t feel so guilty about abandoning him to his mother’s company. Aziraphale had gone off somewhere or another, twittering on about some museum or bridge or boat or something else that Crowley didn’t care about very much. He’d told him they would meet at the College Green near the “_b__ig council building with the unicorn on top _” at 3pm, from whence they could go to a little restaurant on Park Street that the Angel had his eye on.

Crowley was fed up. He didn’t care about sightseeing. He didn’t care about shopping. He didn’t care about any of it. It was October, the day was bleak, the rain was threatening but not delivering, and there were far too many people bustling and meandering about for a Wednesday. Didn’t these people have jobs? Why were they all out here, wandering aimlessly in the city? Didn’t they have anything _ better _ to do with their lives??

After wandering aimlessly for about an hour, Crowley had ended up in the Cathedral garden. He hadn’t gone through the church building itself, of course. He’d hopped over a low wall round the back. He liked church _ gardens_, not _ churches_. Churches made his feet itch. 

It was a nice garden, and Crowley was enjoying being in it. It was full of some exceptionally good plants, including a very nice cherry tree, a particularly fragrant patch of lavender, and some interesting wild grasses. A plaque on the wall claimed that the garden had won several national awards, and Crowley could believe it. It was well-tended whilst still maintaining a sense of the wild and untamed. Whilst Crowley preferred his own plants to exist in terrified and borderline militaristic order, he could still appreciate a well thought-out wilderness-ish garden.

He liked it even more because it was practically empty. Outside on the streets there were people everywhere. In here, maybe one or two people would stroll past every ten minutes or so, and when they stumbled across Crowley they usually did that little half-stop thing that people do when coming into unexpected contact with others, that lovely little gesture that intimated they were just as affronted and discomfited by his presence as he was by theirs. 

A scrawny but relatively healthy looking pigeon landed on the seat beside Crowley. It cocked its head at him and stared at with languid interest.

“What?” Crowley hissed.

The bird was entirely nonplussed. It continued staring at the Demon for a few seconds and then, evidently deeming him to be of no further interest and unlikely to turn into a loaf of bread within the next few minutes, it hopped primly off of the bench and began pecking at the grass.

Crowley watched it. It seemed quite contented, for a pigeon. Just pecking around, looking for… whatever pigeons looked for, without a care in the world. A cat could leap over the wall at any moment and rip it’s little grey head off, but the pigeon didn’t care. The pigeon wasn’t thinking about the future, wasn’t thinking about the past, it was just pecking away at the present, looking at what was in front of it, in ignorant pigeon-ish bliss.

“Some people see them as pests, but I rather like them too.”

Crowley looked up with a start. He’d been so invested in _The Adventures Of The Boring But Contented Pigeon_ that he hadn’t heard the footsteps as they approached. He hadn’t heard them stop.

A priest. 

Great.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” the priest said, all irritating benevolence, with just a pinch of humor.

“You didn’t,” Crowly said with as much icy bluntness as he could muster.

He turned back to his pigeon, but it had flown away. _ Clever girl _ , Crowley thought. _ See a priest, bugger off. Very wise. Wise pigeon _.

“Not many people visit the garden at this time of year,” the priest continued, oblivious to Crowley’s active disinterest. “Too damp, I suppose. And not very _ glitzy _. You should see this place in late spring, or early summer. Absolute riot of colour. Really pulls in the crowds then.”

“Really.” Crowley crossed his legs away from the woman and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Personally, I prefer it at this time of year. The colours are a lot more muted, but I find them much more compelling. And, of course, there is something so motivating about gardens in the autumn. All of the hardy perennials sticking it out through the rain and wind, facing all weathers, frost and snow and rain, and, yes, the occasional sunny spell. I prefer that to the fair-weather beauty of the spring and summer plants. Yes, they are pretty, but they don’t _ last _. I’ll take blue oat grass or a nice hibiscus over roses any day.”

“I like the lavender,” Crowley said without thinking, and immediately regretting it.

“Oh, me too!” She replied far too enthusiastically for Crowley’s liking. “May I?” She gestured to the bench.

Crowley scowled and shrugged. “S’your church, y’can sit where y’like.”

“Well, it’s not really _ my _ church,” she said, sitting down. “I’m only the sub-Sacrist. And anyway, it’s supposed to be everyone’s church, isn’t it? A place for the whole community to come together and share in equally.”

“Not God’s then?” Crowley asked in a bitter drawl. If the woman was going to insist on bothering him, he might as well do some work. Spread a little discontent. Sow a few seeds of doubt. Turning a priest was a bit old school, but sometimes you just had to play the hand you were dealt. And she was bringing it on herself, really. Going around _ talking _ to people. What was the world coming to?

To Crowley’s disappointment and disdain, she just laughed.

“I suppose it’s God’s, ultimately, yes,” she said. “But only in the same way that everything is. A Cathedral is no more inherently Godly than anywhere else, I don’t think.”

“What’s the point of it then? Why bother with all this -” Crowley gestured dismissively to the towering spires and ornate architectural detailing “-stuff, all this _ garnish _, if God isn’t even here. Who’s it for?”

“People,” she said, simply. “Churches are a place for people. For them to find some focus, to be a place of calm and safety where they can think about things, somewhere to always find an open heart and a willing ear…” she shrugged. “And churches can be really pretty. People like pretty things. Reminds them that the world isn’t only bleak and depressing. Reminds them that there is some beauty left.”

“Don’t really need God to be in the equation then, do you?”

“Not really, no.” She smiled brightly, too brightly for a priest. It wasn’t seemly.

Crowley frowned. Priests were a lot easier to mess with, back in the day. A lot more tightly wound. All you had to do was suggest that maybe they had a tendency to zone out during prayers, or that they were a _ little _ too fond of looking upon the Holy Body Of Christ and suddenly they’d be down the local tavern getting plastered and crying on the shoulder of the woman behind the bar. 

“You don’t seem very… Priest-ish,” Crowley said, looking her up and down with a critical eye. “For starters how _ old _ are you? Twelve?”

She laughed again. So annoying.

“It’s not polite to ask a lady her age, you know. I’m thirty-four. Good moisturiser, stay out of the sun. Does wonders.”

“And you’re sure you’re a priest?”

“No, I’m a Sacrist, I said already.”

“Oh. So, what, basically a glorified caretaker in dodgy cosplay?”

She _ really _ laughed at that, head thrown back, mouth open, full on cackling. The clergy really weren’t cut from the same cloth these days. Hastur would have had a head fit if he’d met her.

“That’s brilliant. Yeah. Glorified caretaker in dodgy cosplay. I love it.” She calmed down a little and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I really do like that. I am a caretaker, you are exactly right. I take care of the church, and the people, and I take care of their hopes and their dreams and their souls.”

“Ugh...” Crowley groaned. He was getting bored of this. If he couldn’t even use her to get a commendation downstairs, then this conversation really was a waste of time. “Look, don’t you have to be, you know, in _ there _,” he said, nodding to the Cathedral, “you know, doing whatever it is your job is supposed to be. Taking care of souls.”

“Even the clergy are entitled to breaks.”

“Oh, well don’t let me keep you,” Crowley said, sarcastically.

“Not at all,” she replied with a smile. “I enjoy talking to people. Especially people who brave the damp October weather in order to enjoy the Gardens. They’re my favourite place in the whole city. Anyone who will sit out here in this weather is someone worth chatting with.”

She was really getting on his nerves. Fine. Enough of the polite, weasel-ish small-talk, time to go in with the big guns. Screw it.

“If you found out, absolutely unequivocally and without question, that God was real, really, really real, would you change anything about how you live your life?” 

It was a good question. Crowley had taken a long time coming up with it, and after some trial and error had finally nailed it down in around the 16th century. The best thing about it was that he didn’t actually need to plant any doubt. They did it themselves, or, rather, they dug up the doubt that was already there. It made them realise that actually - except in the cases of very rare and extreme outliers who were usually batshit insane enough to be totally evil anyway - they never _ really _ believed in the first place. Not in the way they claimed to. Not in the way they tried to convince themselves they did. The question triggered a sort of long-game existential uneasiness that would slowly chip away at their foundations until they ended up questioning _ everything. _Crowley liked making people to question things.

“Ah, that is such a good question,” the Sacrist said. “I’ve thought about that a lot, honestly.”

Crowley’s heart sank.

“Oh. Have you?”

“Yeah. Because, you know, it’s one thing to believe something, everyone can believe things, but it’s quite another to let your beliefs impact your behaviour. To let them shape the way you live your day to day life. I think everyone should ask themselves that question, not just about God, but about their morals, their ethics, any beliefs that they hold dear.”

_ For fucksake. _

“But to answer your question, I’m not sure. I’d like to think I wouldn’t change, but it’s hard to say. And I’m not entirely certain that I believe in God, anyway.”

“What?” This was going from bad to worse.

“Well, I mean, I _ believe _ in God. I believe She’s out there, and I believe She loves us. But all of the stuff in the bible, and the other religious texts, I don’t know how far I believe all of _ that _ . So I suppose it would depend _ which _ iteration of God was proven to be real, as to whether I’d change my behaviours at all if Her existence was proven beyond question.”

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, aren’t you a member of the clergy? Shouldn’t you be a little more certain about things than that?” This was not how these conversations were supposed to go.

“Eh, certainty is a dangerous thing,” she replied with a shrug. “And anyway, I don’t believe that God would have made things quite so obtuse if She had wanted us to be certain about things. She wouldn’t have given us minds that were so full of curiosity and doubt. If God really is real, and I want to believe that She is, I think She would want us to be uncertain. Why else would She have made it so we know so little and yearn to know so much?”

“Maybe She’s just a bitch.”

The Sacrist smiled. “Maybe.”

“Or,” Crowley continued, getting a little too worked up but not being able to stop himself, “maybe She’s just not here at all any more. Maybe She’s just gone. Buggered off. Maybe we didn’t turn out the way She wanted us to, and so She got bored of toying with us and abandoned us to our fates. Maybe She got fed up and gave up and stopped replying and stopped caring.”

“You are a believer, then?” she asked, missing the point entirely.

Crowley pulled a face. “Stupid question.”

“Why is it stupid?”

“It’s like asking whether I believe in the moon. Makes no difference whether I do or not, the moon doesn’t care. It’ll carry on doing whatever it wants regardless of whether I’m down here praising it or whether I’m down here saying it’s not real at all. Asking whether I believe God exists is an irrelevance. She’s still there, or She’s gone, whatever, either way, She doesn’t care about me, she doesn’t care about you, she doesn’t care about any of it. Not enough to actually get involved. Stupid question.”

As Crowley was ranting, a young mother and her small child had wandered into the garden. The kid wasn’t very old, couldn’t have been more than three. As Crowley ended his mini tirade with a scowl at the not-a-Priest woman, they walked by him. The boy plonked himself down on the ground in front of the bench. His mother carried on walking, admiring the apple tree at the end of the path. 

Even though he was still irritated at the Sacrist, Crowley couldn’t help but soften. The kid had picked up a handful of damp grass and was inspecting it closely. His hair was black and shaggy, a lot like Warlock’s had been at that age. The little boy turned his head and looked up at Crowley, suddenly noticing that he wasn’t alone in his little baby world. Crowley smiled warmly, and the little boy’s face broke into a bright and beaming grin. Then he wobbled back up to his feet and toddled back to his mother, who was waiting for him with a smile and an outstretched hand.

Crowley watched as they walked away, watched as the mother pointed out plants and other little interesting things to her son. Watched how she crouched down to his level in order to listen attentively to his half-nonsense baby speak, and to reply to every word in earnest.

“Everyone always carries on about how we are all Her children,” Crowley said, still watching the mother and her son, and speaking with a distant air, “They go on about how She’s our father. Mother. Parent. Whatever.” He shook his head and frowned. “But that’s not how parents should be. They’re supposed to be there. They’re supposed to listen, and teach, and talk back. They’re supposed to…” He trailed off, swallowing his words. He didn’t know why he was even saying them. He didn’t know why he was still here at all.

“Look, lady, God’s gone. She’s dead, or AWOL, or She’s just too up herself to bother with the likes of me. Of us. Of everyone. Heaven and Hell and Earth and everything. She’s given up on us. Parents aren’t meant to do that. She doesn’t believe in me, so why should I believe in her?”

The Sacrist blinked and exhaled slowly. She had tears in her eyes, which made Crowley cringe. Why, oh _ why _ had he said all of that? Maybe he was going crazy. That was the only explanation. He’d finally been pushed too far, and he had gone completely mad. Brilliant.

“The way you talk about God,” she said, voice so full of annoying awe and gentle admiration that it made Crowley feel sick, “it’s like you really _ know _ Her. It’s beautiful.”

“I called Her a bitch,” Crowley muttered.

“But you really _ mean _ it. You really do _ believe _, don’t you?” 

“I really think you’re missing the point.”

“I’m sorry that you don’t think you are worthy of God’s love. But you are. I’m sure of it. She does love you. You are worthy.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose and curled his lip. “Oh, what, you speak for God, now? How the hell can you say that? You _ literally _ have no idea who I am. I could be a psychopathic serial killer for all you know.”

“Yeah, you could be. Or you could be a modern-day saint. Or an Angel in disguise.”

Crowley laughed bitterly. “Hah. That I most certainly am not, I can assure you.”

“Or,” she continued nonplussed, “you could just be a man, in a Garden, with a lot of questions, who seems terribly, terribly sad.”

Crowley swallowed and blinked. “Look, that’s all- it’s- what I am is irrelevant. I never said that_ I _ don’t think _ I’m _ worthy. I said that _ She _ doesn’t think I’m worthy. _ Big _ difference.”

“Oh, so you speak for God now, do you?” the Sacrist retorted with a smile.

“More than you do,” Crowley snapped back.

“All I’m saying is that maybe things are more complicated than you think.”

“You have no idea.”

“D’you have kids?” she asked, straight out of left field.

“What?”

“D’you have kids? The way you smiled at that little boy just now, it felt like you knew him, or he reminded you of someone you cared about very much. I just wondered if you had any kids of your own.”

“Uh…”

_ Leave, leave, just get up and walk away and leave, you don’t have to talk to her..._

“Yeah.” Crowley replied with a flinch. “Or, no. Not exactly. I had this kid, well he wasn’t exactly _mine_, but I raised him. I looked after him. From when he was a baby. But then... He doesn’t see me, now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

The Sacrist bit her lip. “You don’t see him at all?”

“I… No. Not- ...No.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Me too.”

“But... you still care about him, right? Even though you can’t talk to him? Even though you can’t tell him you love him?”

Crowley glared at her and when he spoke, he did so through gritted teeth. “It’s -- not -- the -- same.”

“Yeah, because _ you _ know why you can’t see your kid. _ You _ know that you still care about him. Maybe God knows, too. _ You _ don’t know, but She knows. And maybe She has a good reason too. Maybe She acts out of love, but you just can’t see it. Maybe _ all _ of this is just part of some bigger plan that we just can’t see.”

“Ugh, you sound just like the Angel.”

Her eyes lit up at that. “The _ Angel _?”

“Ah. It’s… I mean, my friend. I have a friend. I sometimes call him angel. It’s a, a, a,” Crowley scrabbled for an end to that sentence. “... an in-joke,” he finished, lamely.

“That is really cute.”

“It’s not cute.”

“Well, maybe you should listen more to this Angel of yours. He sounds like a pretty smart guy.”

“He’s not _ mine _…” Crowley sighed. “Look, I get what you’re doing. And yay, great, bully for you, carry on saving souls or whatever it is that your game is. But I’m not your target audience, alright? Trust me. I don’t have a soul to save. So let’s just call it quits. No score draw, how about that?”

“Where did you meet your friend?”

Crowley was getting a headache. “What?”

“Your friend. Your Angel. Where did you meet him?”

“What? I - In a garden.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you meet in a garden?”

“What do you mean ‘how did we meet in a garden?’ How does anyone meet anywhere? We just met.” 

“Yeah but how?”

“Oh for heaven's sake... Fine. We were both in a garden, and I walked up to him and asked him a question, and he answered, and then it started raining, and he put his w- his umbrella over me, and that was how we met. Happy?”

“That’s cute.”

“It’s not cute.”

“What’s his name?”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Why do you call him ‘Angel’? You don’t seem very keen on anything Heavenly; wouldn’t have had you down as being fond of Angels.”

“I’m not fond of Angels, I’m fond of_ him._” Crowley winced as he realised what he said. “I mean, not that I’m- I’m not fond of- He’s just a friend. Not even a friend, really, just a- mmnm- just this person I sort of know a bit.”

“Just a person you sort of know a bit?”

“Yes! Jeez.”

“A person you sort of know a bit, who you call “Angel.’”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m just interested, is that such a sin?”

“It might be…” Crowley muttered.

“What’s your favourite thing about him?”

Crowley involuntarily stopped to think about that one. He didn’t know why he was even entertaining these questions. There was something about the woman’s relentlessness that made it hard not to.

“I don’t- ...He’s compassionate,” Crowley said resignedly. “He cares about people, and things, and everything. Even when he shouldn’t. And he’s really, really clever. Cleverest person I’ve met.”

“What’s his favourite thing about you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Guess.”

“No.”

“Well what do you do that makes him smile?”

“Look, I don’t -” Crowley sighed. “I saved his books, once. That made him smile.”

“His books?”

“Yeah, he has a thing for old books, really loves them. And there was a… Well, some books of his were going to get destroyed, and I saved them for him. I think that… made him happy. Maybe.”

“Did he know your kid?”

Crowley paled and looked down. “Yeah. We… He was our… Yeah. He did.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that, should I?”

Crowley closed his eyes. “It’s alright. Doesn’t matter.”

The Sacrist swallowed and fiddled with her sleeve cuff. 

“So, what does he look like, this Angel of yours?”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m just interested!”

“Why?!”

“How long have you known him?”

_ “Forever._”

“That’s so adorable.”

“No, it’s not.” Crowley uncrossed his legs and slapped his hands down onto his thighs. “And that’s my cue to leave, I think. Goodbye, weird not-a-Priest lady. Have a nice life.”

Crowley stood up and began walking away. He had had enough of this, now. In fact, he’d had enough of this about twenty minutes ago. He’d had enough of it the minute she’d appeared. 

“Hey!” she called after him. “That’s the wrong way!”

“No, it’s not. It’s my way. It’s the way I’m going. Goodbye."

He heard her jogging up behind him. 

“I saw you climb in over the wall, you know.”

“Well done, you don’t need glasses.”

“I can’t actually let you climb the wall to get out. It’s against health and safety.”

“Stop me then,” Crowley said, without stopping.

“I’ll get in trouble if you do!”

“I don’t actually care. _ Goodbye.” _

Crowley carried on walking away.

“Look, you don’t have to go through the church, you know, if that’s your problem. I can let you out through the cloisters.”

Crowley hesitated. He only hesitated very, very slightly, and only because the wall he was planning on hopping over had a muddy patch on one side and some brambles on the other, and his shoes were _ really _ expensive... But he hesitated just enough for her to notice.

“Cloisters really aren’t church-y at all. Basically just a really old house. And you have way too fancy clothes on to be scrabbling around through those bushes, mate.”

Crowley turned back to her and rolled his eyes with his whole head. “If I say yes, will it shut you up?”

“Maybe,” she grinned. 

Crowley glanced at his shoes. They _ were _nice shoes.

“Ugh, fine.”

She did a happy little hop and lead the way.

“Watch your head, the door is a little low here,” she said as she ushered him through the old wooden door into the even older building. Crowley squinted as he walked into the relative darkness of the cloisters.

“These are _ thirteenth century,_” the Sacrist chirped proudly. “Well, not all of it, obviously it’s been patched up a bit over the years. But this building has been here since then. Isn’t that cool?”

“Yeah, brilliant…” Crowley drawled.

“_Crowley?!” _

Crowley span around on his heels in the direction of the voice.

“It _ is _ you! My dear, what on earth are _ you _ doing _ here? _” 

Aziraphale strode up to him.

“Aziraphale? Why are you… I thought you were going to… the… thing… At the… place...”

“I _ knew _ you weren’t listening. I told you I was planning on visiting the Cathedral. That’s why I suggested we meet outside the Council Building opposite!”

“I was listening. I listened to the bits that were relevant to me.”

“Hmm, I’m sure... But really, my dear, what are you doing in a _ cathedral _ of all places?”

“M’not in the cathedral. I’m in the cloisters,” Crowley muttered. “They’re thirteenth century.”

The Sacrist was standing at Crowley’s side wearing a sappy, sickening, slightly smug grin. Aziraphale finally noticed her presence, and looked her up and down.

“Hello,” he said, with an uncharacteristic coldness. “And who are you?”

“Hi!” She replied brightly. “I’m the sub-Sacrist here. Nice to meet you!”

“I hope he hasn’t been causing any trouble…” Aziraphale cast a warning glance at the Demon.

“What! I haven’t! Honestly, angel, I just wanted to see the gardens. They’ve won awards.”

The Sacrist gasped. “_Oh!" _she exclaimed. “This is the _ Angel??” _

Aziraphale looked at her in alarm. Then he looked at Crowley, eyebrows raised, eyes flaring, silently yelling at him _ what the hell, Crowley!? _

“Ah, no. Not like- I didn’t-” Crowley scowled as he realised how stupid the assumption Aziraphale had made was. “Seriously, Aziraphale? I just referred to you as ‘angel’, and she thought that was-that’s what she is going on about, not- Christ on a bike, you think I’m that much of an _ idiot _?”

The Sacrist watched the exchange with obvious amusement, and just a little bemusement.

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale said, looking Crowley up and down indulgently. He turned back to the Sacrist with a little more of his usual charm.

“I trust that he has been behaving himself?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve just been showing him the gardens, like he said.” The Sacrist glanced at Crowley, and the sparkle in her eyes worried him immensely. “He’s been telling me _ all _ about you.”

Aziraphale tilted his head and quirked his mouth into a small, pouting grin. His eyes darted to Crowley, who made a sound like _ aarrrhhghgnnnfffnnfnfnggrhhggg. _

“All good, I hope?” Aziraphale replied, mimicking her mischievous tone. This wasn’t _ fair_. There were _ two _ of them! 

“Oh, yes. All very good. Very, very good. Very _ sweet,_ actually”

Aziraphale did his little happy wiggle thing, and in spite of himself Crowley had to fight back a smile. Stupid angel.

“Well, Crowley?”

“Ngngmngfgggfgnnmmmgfff. What?”

“Are you going to introduce me to your young lady friend?”

“She’s not my friend, she’s some random priest who won’t _ go away._” 

Aziraphale looked scandalised, and the Sacrist giggled.

Crowley sighed and pointed at Aziraphale. “This is Aziraphale.”

“Oh, what a lovely name!” the Sacrist chirped. So saccharine. It made Crowley feel ill.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied.

The Angel turned and looked expectantly at Crowley.

“Right. Yeah. And Aziraphale, this is, um…” Crowley stared at the Sacrist. “Uh.. What’s your name?”

“Oh, Good Lord, Crowley.”

“What! It didn’t come up!”

The Sacrist laughed. “My name is Bethany.” She held out her hand to Aziraphale. “I’m very pleased to meet you.” She smirked at Crowley. “And you too. Crowley, right?”

Crowley grunted.

“Likewise charmed, Bethany,” Aziraphale said, taking her hand and accompanying it with an ostentatious little bow. 

“Can we go now?” Crowley asked, impatiently.

“Do you live in Bristol, Aziraphale?” Bethany asked the Angel.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale replied. Crowley was beginning to wonder whether he’d turned invisible. “We’re just down here for the week. We live in London. Down here with our godson.”

“Your_ godson?_” The Sacrist, Bethany, was smiling from ear to ear. “Oh my goodness, you two are so adorable. I don’t think I can handle it.”

Aziraphale frowned, looking like a confused owl, and glanced at Crowely, who shrugged.

Aziraphale turned back to Bethany with a gracious nod. “Well, thank you, Bethany, for keeping him out of trouble for me.”

“Any time,” she grinned.

“Come along then, dear boy, I believe it is nearly three o’clock, and _ we _ have a lunch date to keep!”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but without any malice. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale suddenly exclaimed. “Bear with me just a tick - there was book in the Cathedral shop I wanted to get. I’ll just be a minute!”

“I’ll be here…” Crowley drawled. 

Aziraphale happily trotted off. Crowley pulled out his phone and tried to ignore the way that Bethany was grinning at him.

“He’s _ adorable,_” she said.

“No, he’s not.”

“I can see why you like him so much,” she said.

“I don’t.”

“I bet he’s really fun, too. He seems like he would be really fun to hang out with.”

Crowley snapped his head up. “You are very annoying, do you know that?”

“And _ you _ are very lucky.”

The Demon scoffed and looked back down at his phone.

“Really,” she said, more softly. “Not many people find someone who looks at them the way he looks at you. Or who talks so sweetly about them the way you talk about him.”

“I don’t talk sweetly.”

“You know, I think you believe that. Do you know that you smile every time you talk about him? I bet you don’t. I don’t think you even realise at all, do you?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Bethany put her hand on Crowley’s arm and squeezed.

“I get it now. You know, I felt bad for you, before? When I saw you sitting out there, alone, you looked so… _ tragic _. My heart broke for you. It still kind of does, for your son. I hope you find a way to see him again. But what I mean is, I was concerned for you and now I’m not. I thought you might need saving, but I think you’re all right, aren’t you? You’ve already got a Guardian Angel. You’ve got all the love you need.”

Crowley looked at her, then, and was extremely relieved that Aziraphale’s approaching footsteps rescued him from having to respond.

“Angel, get your book?” the demon said, turning gladly away from Bethany and her disconcerting insight.

“Yes! And several more beside it! This city has a _ fascinating _ history, my dear.”

“Tell me all about it over lunch, yeah?” Crowley was suddenly feeling extremely grateful for the Angel’s friendship. He’d listen to him talk about anything. Forever.

“It was really, genuinely lovely to meet you boys,” Bethany said, taking Aziraphale’s hands in both of hers in an overly sincere gesture Crowley found so infuriatingly typical of the clergy. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in our little city. Come by here any time, I would be more than happy to give you the full tour of the place.”

“Lovely to meet you too, Bethany, I hope you have a lovely day -”

“Let’s _ go_, angel.”

Aziraphale shot an _ I’m so sorry about him, whatever is he like _look at Bethany, and then tripped along after Crowley, back out onto the busy Bristol streets. 

With his angel at his side, chattering happily away about the Reformation, and Castles, and Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Crowley couldn't help but smile to himself, and couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, he did have a soul worth saving, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this whilst sitting in the garden of Bristol Cathedral, in the rain, but in August not October, because English weather really is terrible. I apologise for any totally incorrect factual details about the cathedral, the garden, and its history - I researched it a bit, and wandered round the place for an awful long time, but at the end of the day, I just want to write about Ineffable Husbands. So. Well. There you go. Enjoy. And go visit Bristol Cathedral, if you get chance!! It really is very nice!


End file.
